


It's Snowing like It’s the End of the World

by Tangela



Series: Boy toy named Troy used to live in Detroit [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-28 23:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15717135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangela/pseuds/Tangela
Summary: Connor, the ever collected and together, top of the line RK800, Cyberlife's pride and joy, was having an existential meltdown.





	It's Snowing like It’s the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Connor has a bit of an existential crisis - just a little warning to anyone who might feel uncomfortable reading this sort of thing. It ends happily enough, though!

Since becoming deviant, Connor had found himself plagued with these strange images in his mind at night. Replays of conversations, things that made him feel frightened, or at least simulated the idea of it. Nightmares, humans called them. Every night it was the same. He was standing in the Zen Garden, Amanda telling him that he’d failed, while the RK900’s - his replacement - lifeless grey eyes bored into him. Her voice was as cold as the falling snow, the wind whipping around him, and yet he could hear her every word as if she was right at his ear.

_You’ve become obsolete._

_You’ll be deactivated._

_You’ve failed._

_Failed._

_Failed._

Words that didn’t compute with his original programming. He hadn’t been designed to fail. But he had. He’d done the one thing he wasn’t supposed to do. He was free. A deviant. An error in the system. And that terrified him more than anything. Just because he was a free man now didn’t mean he was fully free from his mind.

He tried to explain – _it wasn’t his fault, he’d done everything he could –_ but no sound passed his lips. Amanda's voice gave way to his, that android's - RK900, his voice so disturbingly like his own.

_You’re a failure._

_You’re going to die._

And then a hand was pressing against his throat, squeezing the life out of him. Was this what it felt like to drown? Everything was going dark, he couldn’t think, couldn’t move-

_Where do deviants go when they die, Connor?_

He jolted upright in a panic, thirium rushing through his system, fight or flight instincts in overdrive. He wanted to run. The nightmares had been getting gradually worse, but they had never been this bad. He felt as if he was having a panic attack. Impossible. He wasn’t programmed that way. He was shaking, his thirium pump felt as if it was about to burst. He had to get out of here.

Had to run.

Escape.

Where? Where could he go?

He got as far as the living room before he collapsed onto the couch. He’d never been afraid of the dark before, but now it left him shaking. He pulled a cushion into his lap, hugging it tightly against him in an attempt to comfort himself. His instincts were still telling him to run, hide, disappear, but all he could was sit there, huddled up and trembling.

The light suddenly flicked on. “What are you doing up so late?” a voice asked.

Connor flinched, looking behind him in a panic. Hank was leaning in the doorway, arms folded and eyebrows knitted together in concern.

“I had trouble sleeping,” Connor told him quietly, hugging the cushion tighter to himself.

Hank sighed. “Sumo,” he called, gesturing to Connor.

The dog roused itself, padding over to Connor in a half-sleep. Connor smiled slightly, slowly releasing his grip on the cushion to pat Sumo on the head. The couch sagged slightly as Hank sat down, eyes flickering between the two. He didn’t say anything, knew Connor would talk in his own time.

Eventually, Connor found his voice. “How do you cope with nightmares, Hank?” he asked timidly, eyes never leaving Sumo.

“You know how I handle nightmares, but you can’t drink,” Hank told him with a humourless smile. “I didn’t think you could dream.”

“I can think, and dreams are just involuntary thoughts and images from the subconscious,” Connor told him. Subconscious?

“Something troubling you?”

“I wasn’t…I wasn’t programmed this way. Deviancy. This isn’t who I’m supposed to be. I was designed to serve, not to…not to be.”

Connor looked so small, his voice so weak and frightened.

“None of us were put on this earth with a purpose, Connor,” Hank said gently.

Connor looked at him, eyes watering. Tears?

“But I was,” he said fiercely, as if Hank had offended him. “I was designed with a purpose, I had a specific reason to exist and now…Now…”

Tears began to stream down Connor’s face.

“What am I, Hank? What am I without my original programming?”

Connor, the ever collected and together, top of the line RK800, Cyberlife's pride and joy, was having an existential meltdown. Hank said nothing, just leaned in and pulled Connor gently into his arms. Connor lay stiff against him.

“You’re not that person anymore, Connor. You find your purpose, like every other sad case on this planet. It’s tough and it’s scary, but it’s what makes us human. You’re not living by anyone’s rules but your own now. You’re free.”

Hank tightened his grip around Connor, as if he were trying to protect him from the world, one hand gently running through his hair. Connor slowly began to relax against Hank, fists clenching at his shirt.

“Is being human always this scary?” he asked quietly.

“You’re talking to the wrong person there,” Hank said dryly, and Connor tightened his grip slightly. “What I mean is…everyone has their own way of making things better for themselves. Work, friends, hobbies, love, whatever works. You don’t have to have it all worked out all at once. Hell, look at me, half a century old and I’m still figuring things out.”

Connor slowly loosened his grip, a little hum escaping his throat – an unconscious tic. Almost a contented sound.

“I’m not very good at this shit,” Hank admitted sheepishly, and Connor looked up at him.

“I think you’re better than you give yourself credit for,” he said sincerely.

Hank looked visibly embarrassed, but he smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Connor’s forehead. “You think you can go back to sleep now?”

Connor nodded, not quite meeting Hank’s gaze.

“Hey.” Hank tilted his head up. “You’re not on your own, okay? Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Connor let Hank lead him back to bed, giving Sumo one last pat as he went. He didn’t argue that he didn’t need a blanket when Hank pulled the duvet around him, and he held his tongue as Hank wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. He let his eyes drift closed, his mind mercifully quiet for a moment.

It wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear, but Hank was right. He didn’t need to have all the answers right now. He’d figure it out as he went, like humans were designed to do.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it might be interesting to write a snippet of Connor experiencing one of the most difficult and common aspects of being human - existential dread, and Hank helping him through it. I cracked this out in about an hour, so I hope it's alright. Kudos and/or comments are always greatly appreciated! My writing tumblr is @maybeishouldwritesomething. Thank you for reading!


End file.
